Starting Conversations
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: "I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John. Molly kisses his cheek. "I know." She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half, and watches Sherlock sleep. Molly/John/Sherlock polyamory
1. I was scared of dentists and the dark

Title: Starting Conversations

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Rating: M

Pairings: Molly/John/Sherlock, John/Molly, John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Molly

Contents/warnings: Polyamory, Post-Reichenbach, OT3, Sherlolly - Freeform,Johnlock - Freeform, sherjolly

Author's note:

This was supposed to be a smutty one shot, instead it's become feels that I have to sort out. Title and chapter titles from 'Riptide' by Vance Joy.

Summary:

"I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John. Molly kisses his cheek. "I know." She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half, and watches Sherlock sleep.

* * *

**Chapter 1: I was scared of dentists and the dark**

Molly quietly pushes open the bedroom door.

John is lying on his side, head propped on one hand, watching the other occupant of the bed, a thin, dark-haired, hollow-cheeked fey creature who is finally sleeping deeply, curled up wearing one of John's t-shirts and a pair of too short pyjama bottoms.

John looks up at Molly and smiles softly. She enters the room and comes around the bed to John's side, sliding in behind him and looping her arm around his waist.

"I'm afraid if I leave the room he'll vanish again," whispers John.

Molly kisses his cheek. "I know."

She lies next to John, her boyfriend of over a year and a half and watches Sherlock, the man they thought they'd might never see again. Molly had lasted two weeks after Sherlock faked his death before she'd cracked under the weight of guilt and John's grief and told him the truth, or the small part of the truth that she knew. At first John had been angry and hurt but he'd kept the secret better than Sherlock had believed him capable. They'd bonded, John and Molly, over both their mutual affection for Sherlock and a need to share the knowledge that he was alive.

Without Sherlock there, occupying her attention, Molly finally noticed the strong, quiet command of John Watson, and that when he smiled at her, smiled properly, it did something rather lovely and fluttery to her middle. Somewhere along the line his friendly smile became a flirtatious one, coffee became dinner and weekly emails became daily texts. Eighteen months after Sherlock disappeared they finally got together.

Molly loves John very much. She loves his smile and his dry, warm wit. She loves that he's decent and kind and that he gets her sense of humour and thinks working in a morgue is interesting. He's the kind of man her friends always told her she deserved: steady, loyal, loving. He has a good job and he cares about her. They're friends as much as lovers. He does love her, but best of all, he likes her cat.

He's also as infatuated with Sherlock Holmes as Molly. When she sees John looking at Sherlock, she recognises herself.

John rolls onto his back and tugs her down to lie with him. She slips her hand in his and he kisses her hair and then looks back towards Sherlock again. Molly rests her head on his chest and watches Sherlock sleep as well.

He had appeared in their flat (it took six months but finally she thinks of 221B as _their_ flat) that morning; bruised, starved, dirty and half-delirious with fatigue. Three years and twenty-days since he faked his death.

He's as beautiful and ethereal as ever and the frisson that bolted through Molly when he appeared at their door hadn't been diminished by time and distance. She'd tucked shaking hands behind her back and watched John's breath quicken, staring at the gaunt figure in the doorway.

Now she allows herself to stare, to take in every plane, every perfect angle of that elegant face. She notes the fading bruise above his right eyebrow, the graze on his cheekbone, the roughness of his chapped lips. He's showered and shaved since he arrived, his face smooth again, hair no longer lank. He's as pale as ever, with shadows bruise-like under the dark sweep of his eyelashes.

They lie there, Molly and John, and watch Sherlock sleep.

When Molly wakes some hours later it is dark. She tugs down the duvet from under John's sleeping form and pulls it over both of them. John rolls over towards her with a sigh, wrapping his arm around her waist and Molly snuggles into him again.

"John." The word is small and muttered and as Sherlock shifts and makes another small sound, Molly realises this is what must have woken her.

"John," Sherlock mutters again. He's having a nightmare, Molly knows what nightmares sound like: she's been sleeping with John Watson after all.

In the dark she reaches over John and finds Sherlock's side with her fingertips.

He whimpers again, a small choked sound. "John…not—"

John stirs and shifts in Molly's arms, turning back towards Sherlock. "Shh, 's alright, 'm here," he mutters. "Shh it's John, you're safe."

Sherlock exhales and Molly feels Sherlock reach for John in the dark, his hand slides over her arm and grips John's shoulder. He gives a small sigh of contentment and John grunts, a satisfied sound, shifting closer still and then their breathing evens out. Eventually Molly falls back to sleep, thinking of a tall, thin figure, lost and alone for such a very long time.

When she wakes again, sunlight is streaming in through the cracks in the curtains and she is warm and wrapped around John. She stretches, luxuriating against his body - not something she's taken for granted yet - and nuzzles at the whiskery skin below his jaw. He makes a small contented noise and presses his cheek back. There's a low rumble off to the side and when a hand brushes against Molly's arm, a spike of excitement thrills through her as she suddenly realises whose hand it is and that Sherlock is back and is here _with them_. She looks up. Sherlock's eyes are closed but he rubs his cheek against the soft cotton of John's t-shirt and emits another rumble of contentment. John hums lightly and turns his face towards Sherlock's, their noses brush and Molly sees a John's mouth crease into a smile.

When Sherlock brushes his lips against John's it seems like an accident.

But then John brushes back and Sherlock's eyes snap open. He raises his head, and Molly's heart is suddenly in her throat because he leans forward and crushes his mouth to John's. He's kissing John, _her_ John, and John is kissing back and – Molly's heart is thudding and her stomach is a tangle of knots but _oh god_ it's erotic.

At her sharp intake of breath, Sherlock pulls back and his eyes lock on hers for a long moment. His expression is bare and it's not his fake manipulative one, this is the one she'd seen that Christmas, when he'd realised Molly's gift had been for him (when he kissed her on the cheek), the one he wore when he told her she counted and asked her to fake his death. Her chest feels very tight and when she glances at John she sees him staring at Sherlock too, lips still parted. Then Sherlock's hand curls around the nape of Molly's neck and he pulls her forward, and kisses her as well. It seems like a dream, it must be a dream, because she's pressed against John and he's _right there_ but she's kissing Sherlock and Sherlock is kissing her, and it feels warm and wanting.

Sherlock draws back and John is there instead, kissing Molly fiercely, possessively, but Sherlock's hand is still in her hair and she feels his lips on her cheek and suddenly Molly turns to meet his mouth again, that gorgeous mouth. John rocks against her, his mouth drawing along her throat and then to Sherlock's. Their bodies, all three of them, press and rub against each other. Sherlock pulls away to kiss John again and then Molly takes a turn until soft, open mouthed kisses, are being shared and passed between them. Hands move, hips and thighs and bodies move – touching gently at first and then urgently, relief, grief and years of wondering and missing assuaged and shown with hungry mouths and trembling hands. Clothes are pulled up and pushed aside, until John's mouth is alternating between Sherlock's lips and Molly's nipple, his hand tucked between her thighs. Sherlock's hand is closed about John and Molly catches his kisses in between as her palm moves over his sleek hardness. Soft moans and rough groans are punctuated with whispered endearments.

They come; John first, Sherlock last and Molly in between, flushed and breathless.

Afterwards, as all three of them lie tangled and sated and Sherlock has drifted off to sleep again, John raises his head and looks at Molly with a rueful, bemused expression. She bites her lip for a moment and John exhales and then they're both biting back giggles because _they just had sex with Sherlock, _and this, this is utterly mad. He kisses her sweetly then, and they sneak out of bed to shower and dress without waking Sherlock.

In the kitchen, while the kettle is boiling, John pulls Molly into his arms again and kisses her solemnly, as if he feels he needs to reassure her, or maybe himself.


	2. This cowboy's running from himself

**Chapter 2: This cowboy's running from himself**

The day is tedious and Sherlock just wants to return to the safe cocoon of John's bed in the room that had once been his. There are many changes in 221B, the presence of Molly not being the least of them. The upstairs room has been converted into a workspace, there's been rearrangements and additions and somehow it all seems _neater. _Perhaps it is not Molly but his absence that has wrought this transformation; order has come to 221B in the absence of chaos.

The changes make Sherlock twitch in a way that leaves his shoulders aching even more once intruding visitors have had their fill. Mycroft, Lestrade and some busybody from the Guardian Mycroft has entrusted to break the news of Sherlock's return from the dead. Mrs Hudson fusses, John lurks, Molly twitters. There are plans and discussions and conversations. It's hellish and Sherlock is used to his mind and company being his own. He's not used to this level of intrusion after so many months of keeping his own counsel. Everyone wants to _know _and _know _and _know._

By the end of the day Sherlock has snatched up his violin (kept safe by Mycroft, an interference Sherlock will forgive) and has begun playing to the exclusion of all else.

After a while he has calmed a little, enough to permit outside stimulus to filter into his awareness.

The flat is quiet and panic seizes him, sudden, illogical terror of being left alone. It is dark, the lamp sheds the only light. Ah. It is nearly 11pm. He has lost time. He abandons his violin and in a moment he is at the closed bedroom door.

Sherlock pushes the door open quietly and sees the two figures in bed, curved together. His throat closes suddenly and he swallows against tightness and unexpected want. He recalls with too sharp clarity the intimacy of that morning; a mistake surely, an aberration and a risk (but oh, a temptation he couldn't resist). John and Molly. Molly and John. Both so pathetically pleased to see him, why? Sentiment? He can't resist it, the care and affection they shower upon him. But they have each other and who is he but an interloper now?

He stands staring at the bed for too long and Molly stirs, blinking up at him.

He should go. He should return to the living room and sleep on the sofa.

"Get in idiot." John's voice is rough with sleep. "I won't sleep properly otherwise, worrying I'm going to wake up and find you've pissed off somewhere again."

Sherlock still hesitates. What does this mean? This invitation? He should despise this tableau of domesticity but he yearns with a humiliating ache to be a part of it.

Molly however throws back the covers and slides out of bed, a small, slim figure in an oversized man's t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh. Her long hair is loose down her back and she has an element of innocent sexuality that The Woman had failed to achieve in similar circumstances. It is this guilelessness that has always confused Sherlock. Her interest in him is earnest and sincere but for a long time Sherlock looked for a non-existent ulterior motive, a falsity to equal his own. He knows now there never was one, he knew it three years ago when he asked her to help him fake his death.

"Come on," she says. "You can have the middle."

Sherlock sheds the dressing gown that he'd thrown on over his own pyjamas, retrieved during the day from where they'd been stored along with his other clothes and personal effects (he has lost too much weight for his suit trousers and shirts, so pyjamas it is).

She waits patiently for him to cross the vast distance from doorway to bed and then climb in, shifting over next to John who huffs and offers one of his pillows. Sherlock lies down and Molly slips in beside him, pulling the covers up over them both. She turns to Sherlock and squeezes his bicep once before looping her arm about his middle. Then John shifts closer too and presses his lips to Sherlock's shoulder in a chaste, affectionate gesture.

He lies there in their embrace. They are fond and _forgiving, _still impossibly pleased to have him back. He has expected more anger, more rage (especially from John). But Molly's revelation early on has mitigated that and given John time to process Sherlock's actions. As Sherlock expected, Molly had been unable to hold her secret for very long in the face of John's grief – long enough to give him a head start, not so long that John had to suffer indefinitely. The resulting sexual relationship between Molly and John is an unintended consequence, but perhaps the inevitable outcome of the intimacy of a shared secret.

He feels curiously safe with both of them, he trusts them not to mock or use him. Sweet, unassuming Molly with her surprising core of steel and John, magnificent, capable and painfully loyal. He breathes in their mingled scents and the memories of this morning return more forcefully than before.

He feels suddenly overwhelmed and gives a shuddering sigh. He wants more of this soft affection, as much as they will give.

Molly's thumb rubs a small circle on his chest and Sherlock sinks into the simple touch (too long without friends, without intimate human contact). Her smaller fingers trail lightly over his t-shirt and a sound embarrassingly like a whimper escapes his lips. He feels John's lips curve into a smile against his shoulder and that firm, doctor-soldier's hand splays on his abdomen and trails down towards his hip. Sherlock's breath catches in a gasp. He feels so needy but that's because he is, he's starved for this affection.

He stretches the fingers of his right hand and finds Molly's thigh, with his left thumb he rubs at the soft skin of John's waist.

He turns his face towards John and presses his lips to his forehead until John lifts his face and their noses bump and then John's thin, expressive mouth opens under his again, sending spikes of want ricocheting down Sherlock's spine. He's wanted to feel John like this for such a very long time, has imagined it in shamefully explicit detail. The actuality makes him ache, makes his limbs weak as if the very flesh will fall from his bones.

Molly's fingertips stroke along the side of his neck, over his collarbone and then down his body to circle his lower abdomen and glide along the edge of the waistband of his trousers. He nips at Johns bottom lip and slides his hand higher on Molly's thigh, up under her nightdress to the soft curve of her hip. He feels a sense of obligation to her, of vague guilt and owing her recompense, he wants to give her this, to apologise, to show her she matters and he hasn't forgotten, and he does want her, yes, despite her insecure belief to the contrary. He wants her warmth and her gentleness and her sweet kisses and her generosity. He wants her small, shy smile and her silly inexplicable crush and her devotion. He wants that still - selfishly, greedily, _he wants her to want him_. So his hand glides further, over sensible cotton knickers, under the edges to tease and make her shiver even as John's kisses make him tremble, even as Molly's questing fingertips touch and stroke and make him throb.

John is holding him, hand firm on his side, tongue and mouth taking and giving in equal measure and Sherlock can easily lose himself in this sensation, in John's mouth and Molly's hands. Molly's lips caress his shoulder and then John's hand curls in his t-shirt and releases before travelling down to join Molly's; dipping under Sherlock's waistband, caressing and stroking. Sherlock arches into two tormenting, contradictory, unpredictable touches. He rocks his hips, surrounded and covered and possessed. He turns his head from John to find Molly's mouth, delighting in her willingness, her eagerness, and then he draws his mouth away completely, too overwhelmed, awash with sensation and building, growing, unbearable tension –

"Shh, shh," John murmurs. "That's it, God Sherlock, yes—"

And Sherlock is disarmed completely. He comes, stiffening and jerking, clutching at Molly and John and biting back his cries.

Afterwards he watches in the semi-dark as Molly straddles John and they rock together with a fierce urgency, sharing tender, open kisses, chasing their mutual completion.

Molly slips out of bed when they are finished to go to the bathroom and John lies panting, an arm thrown over his forehead.

"Fuck that was good," he gasps and squeezes Sherlock's hand in the dark.

Sherlock swallows. "Yes," he manages and when Molly returns he lets them both wrap him up in arms and legs and soft sighs of contentment.


	3. I wanna be your left hand man

**Chapter 3: I wanna be your left hand man**

John is happy, very happy; Sherlock is back and he's alive and he's at 221B. Every time John thinks of this fact a bubble of joy wells up inside his chest. He keeps catching Molly's eye and they both grin. He knows Molly feels the same, catches her smiling at nothing, sees her watching Sherlock with a quiet, pleased look.

The sex bemuses John but he tries not to put too much store by it, too much thought into it, taking each encounter as it comes. Whatever Sherlock's reasons for accepting John and Molly's attention, it can't last much longer. This thing is fleeting and John refuses to question or analyse it, but instead accepts it willingly while it's on offer. In the past (before this thing) when he thought about a threesome he's always imagined it with two women, never thought he'd be happy sharing a girlfriend with another man. Yet it's not like that with Molly. It's him and Molly getting to share Sherlock, both allowed to touch and give for just a little while.

John hopes Sherlock is happy. He's not sure, and if he's going to worry about anything, it's Sherlock's mental and physical health. Sherlock's quieter than he used to be and he seems to command less space. He is still catching up on sleep, eating more than he ever used to and he doesn't complain of boredom or demand cases, instead he seems happy to just _sit._ He curls in on himself on the sofa, arms about his knees and just thinks. He will participate in conversations if pressed but seems to prefer to simply observe. Sometimes though he'll play his violin for hours at a time, with such emotion that John wonders where he keeps it all - but then people have different coping mechanisms.

At night, Sherlock slips into their bed and crawls between them. Sometimes he touches, exploring tentatively, sometimes he responds to a simple affectionate gesture with such a needy, wanting sound that it goes straight to John's groin. Sometimes they simply sleep. Sometimes John thinks it's actually about comfort to Sherlock and then he feels guilty for turning it into sex, even if Sherlock's hard against him and whimpering against his mouth, even if Sherlock is kissing Molly in a way that makes John want, but _want who_, he's never sure.

The first time Sherlock goes down on John he comes embarrassingly quickly, with Molly's lips against his and his fingers inside her. When Sherlock pulls back afterwards his erection bobs hard and red, and Molly is wet, flushed and biting her bottom lip in that way of hers. She glances at John, at Sherlock and back again, and Sherlock's gaze, dark with lust, flickers between the two of them. John knows what they are asking and he squeezes Molly's hand and reaches for the pack of condoms in answer. Blushing a bit, fumbling a bit more, John rolls one onto Sherlock and lies next to Molly as Sherlock enters her. He kisses them both in turn until the pleasure becomes too much for Sherlock and Molly and they are reduced to open mouthed panting, so John strokes Molly's hair and tells her how beautiful she is as she gasps and arches under Sherlock. As for Sherlock, he rises over Molly, lean sinewy muscles flexing with each thrust, his gaze fixed on both of them in turn, as if he wants to store every moment in his Mind Palace. His face twists almost painfully and his eyes shut tight when he comes with a strangled moan. John never thought he'd find a man this bloody attractive, this beautiful.

They both curl around Molly afterwards and John feels more protective of her than usual and she kisses him gently and strokes his face soothingly.

"Was that all right?" she whispers, worrying her bottom lip. "With us I mean."

John reassures her it was, it is, and he kisses her again, and then finds Sherlock's hand and lifts it to his lips as well. He sees Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as he places a tender kiss on Molly's shoulder.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock appears in the kitchen dressed top to toe in Spencer Hart and Dolce & Gabbana. He steals John's toast, takes a sip of Molly's tea and declares he's going out. John feels his throat tighten inexplicably and when he looks at Molly he knows she's feeling the same nameless worry. Sherlock pauses in the act of tying his scarf.

"Case John. Don't just sit there, are you coming or not?"

Molly's cheeks dimple in a smile she tries to hide in her tea, her fine eyes dancing. John grins and is on his feet in seconds. He's already grabbing his phone, ready to call in sick to the clinic.

"Molly, I'll need some lab work done in approximately two and a half hours," says Sherlock pulling on his gloves. "If you'd care to assist?"

Molly's eyes are very big and she puts her tea cup down carefully, biting her bottom lip to stop the squeak John is sure she wants to make. "Of course," she says finally. "I'll meet you both at Barts."

Sherlock nods, he glances at John and tilts his head towards the door. "Triple murder, John, and a locked room. Come on!"

And then they are bounding down the stairs, hailing a cab and haring through London on the path of a murderer.

* * *

Sherlock is brilliant and John tells him so and for a moment John desperately wants to kiss him, there in the alley with a blood spatter pattern on the wall, but it seems wrong somehow, without Molly there, without her knowing. So instead he clears his throat and looks away.

"Barts then?" he says and if Sherlock's response is a little quiet, a little subdued, John tries not to think about it.

John kisses Molly hello when they arrive at the lab and Sherlock stands apart for a moment before sweeping past to take over the equipment and start giving orders.

He is brusque and efficient and it's exactly like old times, except now, when Sherlock barks at Molly thoughtlessly, sharply enough to make her startle and press her lips together, John rankles.

"Sherlock," he says softly, warningly.

Sherlock looks up at his tone.

"What?" he snaps, then sees John's glance towards Molly, sees Molly's tight fake smile. Sherlock's mouth tightens and he looks down again. He swallows. "My apologies," he says roughly. "_Please_ Molly."

And when she hands him the next slide, he catches her hand with his for a moment and looks up at her. She studies him for a long moment and then smiles and Sherlock releases her hand and returns to his microscope but John feels a tension that he hadn't even been aware of suddenly ease.

That night Molly seems tender and more attentive than usual towards Sherlock. When John, trying not to feel left out, leans in to take his turn, Sherlock looks at him with a hesitancy that makes John wonder if perhaps he's missed something, but then Sherlock responds fiercely and John stops thinking altogether. He takes the kiss he wanted in the alley and then some and he tries to express with mouth and hands just how fucking brilliant he thinks Sherlock is and how very much he wants him.


	4. You're the magician's assistant

**Chapter 4: You're the magician's assistant in their dreams**

Molly never thought she'd be comfortable being in a threesome with two men. She always thought she'd feel vulnerable, used or objectified, but it's nothing like that, this thing they have. John is always respectful, always so appreciative that Molly never feels as if she's being passed around, and Sherlock reacts with a reserve and hesitation that makes Molly want to assure him over and over that he is welcome and wanted, which is silly, because can't he see how much John and Molly both care for him? It makes Molly overcompensate, lavish him with attention, and then, suddenly she will remember John and apologetically even things up (but John, out of all of them, shouldn't lack confidence -– after all, he is the one Sherlock loves, and he is the one Molly counts as her boyfriend).

Still, as it continues -– much longer than she thought possible (she can't believe Sherlock still wants them, wants _her_) -– she waits for the other shoe to drop.

Molly can't talk about this to her friends. She knows what they would say - she'd say it herself, if she were in their shoes -– Molly should choose, or get out. Admittedly, it does look bad: her boyfriend's old friend has shown up and now he's sharing their bed (Sharing Molly? Sleeping with her boyfriend?). It's not like that though, if anything it is Sherlock they are sharing, or maybe, she and Sherlock are sharing John. Molly's not sure.

There's no way she's telling her Mum, she was so pleased when Molly started going out with John. 'That lovely doctor!' She wouldn't understand. Telling her would only spoil things.

Because Molly doesn't want to choose and she doesn't want to walk away. John is her boyfriend, he's lovely and she loves him, she doesn't want to imagine not having him in her life, but on the other hand, she's always had a thing for Sherlock, she's always been a little bit (all right, stupidly, madly) in love with him. And John's always had a thing for Sherlock too and more importantly, Sherlock has a thing for John. Molly can't choose and besides the only choice might turn out to be to stay with both of them or walk away alone. When she thinks this, she has to wonder if maybe she really ought to leave. _That_ thought makes her stomach twist.

She supposes, weeks in now, _they_ ought to talk about it, but the thought of raising the topic in the cold light of day, with Sherlock looking so sophisticated and John, well, so normal, is too daunting and fraught with risk. Sometimes she starts to say something and she can't even begin.

She knows John loves her, she knows it, and knows he's worrying about this too because when they are alone, just the two of them, he tries so hard to be perfect. He's so sweet and giving and tells her how much he loves her. Sometimes he's so nice it makes Molly cry, and then he gets worried and kisses her and asks what's wrong and Molly can't tell him because she doesn't know why it should hurt to have John try so hard to show he cares.

Molly's not sure about Sherlock's feelings, he looks at her so intensely -– but it's not jealousy or resentment she sees in his expression, it's more…understanding, perhaps uncertainty. All the same, Sherlock is attentive to both of them, he explores Molly's body with the same thoroughness and attention as he attends to John's. He returns her embrace and her kisses with enthusiasm (his lips, his hands touching her, his body pressed against her, the times when he's inside her, _oh God,_ she never thought she'd ever get to experience this).

It's always both of them with Sherlock. He never comes to bed unless John is there too. If he and John do anything when Molly is absent, it's not apparent and they never say so. Molly is sure John would say so. There are many nights when it's still just Molly and John, when Sherlock is out or engrossed in an experiment or simply sat on his chair sunk deep inside his Mind Palace. Somehow though, even though it's nice to play at being a normal couple, just being together, reconnecting and recalibrating, it feels like something is missing. They don't talk about Sherlock when they're alone like this, don't talk about what they're doing. Molly wants to, she wants to ask and she wants to talk, but the words catch in her throat.

Tonight though, the three of them are in bed together, and John is spread out and Sherlock is kneeling between his thighs, pushing them back, pushing John open, his mouth and tongue moving on him in ways Molly's never has, making John arch and swear in ways that he's never done with Molly either. Molly had been beside John, kissing him, and John had been touching her, but now he is overwhelmed and he can't do anything but grit his teeth and fist the sheets. Molly watches. She watches as Sherlock asks John in a low, obscene rumble, if he can use his fingers, as John moans his yes. She watches as Sherlock little by little, opens John up and melts him down into lust and trembling need. She watches as John swears and tells Sherlock he wants him, wants him inside, _now, bloody hell, now_. She watches as Sherlock rolls on the condom, watches as slowly, painstakingly he pushes into John's body, all the while searching John's face, something needful in his intense gaze. At first she touches herself; it's hot, God, it's erotic, but as she watches, watches the way Sherlock's eyes are fixed on John's, sees the way John looks back, she feels like an interloper, witnessing their intimate moment together, one deep inside the other, staring into each other's eyes.

Memories of previous callous rejections get the better of her and she wonders what her place in this is. She can't stop the little anxieties from surfacing. She wonders if her role is simply to make John more comfortable about being with a man, if Sherlock only wants her there for John, if one day John will stop needing her to be there; if she is now dispensable in this menage a trois.

She watches Sherlock's expression, full of emotion as he rocks into John, at John gazing up at Sherlock in return, both so painfully beautiful it makes Molly's breath catch. She pulls her legs up under her nightie and wraps her arms around her knees. She bites her lip. John has watched her do something very similar in the same position. It is a new, intense experience for him. She tells herself she is being selfish...yet Sherlock doesn't hold her attention so completely, and he doesn't look at her with such unvarnished need.

She looks away.


	5. I was scared of pretty girls and

**Chapter 5: I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations**

Sherlock is lost, lost in John's tight heat, in the pleasure that has wrapped itself around his core and is winding up his spine, and in the dilated pupils and singular indigo-blue of John's eyes. The data is too much, too overwhelming, he can no longer process it, only record, store, save.

He thrusts, the obscene slick sound of each slide into John's body the only noise apart from their ragged breaths. Then John breaks eye contact, looks to the side, reaches out – and Sherlock belatedly remembers Molly. She is sitting beside them, simply watching, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and there is something at once undefinable and wholly recognisable in her expression that makes Sherlock pause, but then before he can interpret it, Molly meets John's gaze and her expression softens into fondness and warmth as she slips down to catch his mouth in a kiss. Sherlock inhales sharply and he starts to move again. He is ridiculously tempted by the delicate shell of her ear and gives into the urge to take her earlobe gently between his lips. Molly makes a small, delightful sound and Sherlock sinks into the extra contact, drunk with pleasure and a surfeit of physical touch, and draws his mouth down along her jaw and the soft skin of her throat before she turns her face towards him and he takes her mouth. He'd once declared this mouth too small but now he finds it, like John's, exactly right, each individual feature open to critique but when combined uniquely_ them _and pleasing. Molly breaks their kiss to return to John, kissing his cheek, his jaw - noses bumping as John, equally consumed by sensation, tries to meet her mouth.

Sherlock cannot hold back any longer and with a groan he increases his pace, driving into John. His breath catches as Molly reaches between them, her small hand grazing Sherlock's stomach and closing about John's erection. John groans and for a moment they hover there, on the precipice of completion, and then John swears and his body clenches, pulsing around Sherlock as he comes. Sherlock's orgasm hits him savagely and he clenches his eyes tight and bows his head, presses his forehead to the crook of John's neck, shuddering. He hears John's murmured endearments, feels firm hands holding him, keeping him safe as he falls, and Molly's fingertips smoothing circles on his back, her lips brushing over his bicep.

Finally the lingering shivers and bursts of bliss cease and Sherlock raises his head, but John has turned and is pulling Molly to him. Sherlock's stomach twists and he leaves an open mouthed kiss on John's shoulder as he withdraws, slides from the bed.

He goes to the bathroom, removes the condom, washes his hands, pulls on his pyjama trousers. When he opens the door, John and Molly are close, kissing deeply, lovingly.

Sherlock watches them, conflicted. There's another spike of jealousy, he wants John,_ just_ John, right now, after their shattering intimacy, yet another part of him is pleased with Molly's involvement, wants her there, wants her to watch and want.

He considers them; her slim curves, his trim masculinity, the way they move together. John caresses her with attentiveness and care, an air of solicitude.

"Was that all right?" John asks in a low voice. "We're all right?"

Did John also notice the vulnerability in Molly's expression earlier, but…no, Sherlock realises that there's something else in his tone; he needs reassurance, proof that he hasn't somehow been unmanned in Molly's eyes. Sherlock snorts derisively but his throat suddenly aches.

Molly smiles and kisses John. "Of course." And as John smiles in return Sherlock feels stupidly grateful to Molly for putting aside whatever had been bothering her to provide John with this reassurance.

He hesitates, caught between the urge to escape and a humiliating desire to be reassured himself. He pads across to the bed and slides in beside John, hooks his arm about his waist, presses his nose between his shoulder blades. His body sinks into the physical comfort of John's warmth and presence.

John closes his hand about Sherlock's briefly before drifting it back to Molly. Their kisses have slowed and for a long moment completely stop.

"Sorry," John says suddenly, jerking into wakefulness.

"It's okay," Molly says. "You don't have to, I'm all right."

"That's not fair," John mumbles, sleepily. "Let me."

Sherlock, sexually satisfied, feels lazy. He wants to bask in the afterglow and contentment; he's already spent much of the evening pleasuring John, and doesn't feel inclined to do anything more. The earlier twinge of jealousy makes him resentful and selfish, Molly's pleasure seems an obligation at this particular moment. He ignores a niggle of guilt at leaving Molly unsatisfied, unlike John who gallantly makes an effort (he's the better man, Sherlock will freely admit it).

"It's okay," Molly whispers. "Really."

"Sorry. I'll make it up to you tomorrow," John mumbles.

Sherlock's conscience pricks him (irritating) and he reaches for her across John, runs his hand down her pert bottom, propping himself up on his forearm. John renews his efforts as well but Molly rolls over, dislodging their hands and snuggling back against John.

"Sleep," she says firmly. "I'm tired."

Sherlock sinks down, his right arm across both of them, but guilt sits unfamiliar and uncomfortable in his mid-section and irritably he tries to thrust it away. John on the other hand has already started to lightly snore. Sherlock can't hear Molly's breathing and the way she lies unnaturally still indicates she's not asleep either.

The mattress shifts as Molly slips out of bed. Sherlock hears her pull on her dressing gown and quietly leave the room, shutting the door behind her.

The thought that Molly is no longer happy with this arrangement seizes Sherlock with an unpleasant certainty. Despite his selfishness, despite the petty jealousies, the thought of not having Molly fills him with something disconcertingly like panic.

He wants John, oh, passionately, desperately, but at the same time he has discovered he wants Molly too, not just as an addendum to John, as he thought at first, but for herself. More than ever he finds himself thinking of her, of her touch, of her body, of her reactions, of appealing elements of her appearance. More and more frequently he's been allowing himself to indulge in memories he's secreted away in a special room of his Mind Palace. He finds himself anticipating their physical intimacies. The small spark from that Christmas so long ago has flared with the chemistry of sex and the physical expression of her desire.

He wants both of them. He wants John, his best friend, breathtakingly brave and magnificent; and Molly, lovely, sweet, splendid Molly. Why can't he have both of them? Societal convention, boring, useless. Why shouldn't they stay like this, why should they be forced to choose? Molly and John have become intertwined, inseparable, he cannot consider being intimate with one without thinking of the other. It is Molly who holds them together, provides John with an excuse for sentiment, offers the romance, domesticity, stability that John needs but Sherlock knows he cannot provide, she has an emotional understanding that smooths over Sherlock's sharp edges and eases their way. She is their catalyst in this maddening chemical mix of desire and affection. Without Molly none of this works.

Besides, John loves Molly, in a way that he never has with the other girlfriends Sherlock has known. Sherlock is not certain, not confident that if it came to a choice, that John would choose him. Or if he _did_, that resentment wouldn't ultimately drive them apart. He'd rather share John than not have him at all.

Sherlock slips out of bed.

Sherlock finds Molly curled up on the sofa, wrapped in her faded dressing gown as she stares at the tv, a mug in her hands. She looks…not…happy. It causes a pain in Sherlock's midsection and he clenches his teeth briefly in irritation at the emotional imposition, this desire to make Molly happy again.

He pads across the floor, tempted for a moment to simply pick up his violin and start playing, salve his own emotional discontent and hopefully wake John to resolve Molly's upset. Out of the two of them, John is better at this. Instead he slides onto the sofa beside her and rests his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Molly begins.

"Don't," says Sherlock, abrupt, then gentles his tone. "I wasn't asleep." He is very aware of her presence and suddenly wishes nothing more than for the two of them to go back to bed with John.

There's a clink as Molly sets down her mug, and Sherlock gives into the urge for closeness and shifts down to lie back on the sofa, his head in her lap.

They stay there for a long moment and then Sherlock feels Molly's hand stroke through his hair. He shuts his eyes.

"John loves you," Molly says quietly. "You love him."

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed; easier. "Yes."

Molly's hand falters for a moment and then continues carding through Sherlock's hair, soothing, gentle, giving.

"I do too," she says. "I— but I don't want to be where I'm not wanted." There is steel in her voice but also a quaver that indicates that this is hard for her to say. "Do you want me to leave?"

Sherlock clutches at her knee.

"No." He sits up and glares at her. "No," he repeats. "You can't leave. This won't work without you. John needs—John has needs I can't provide." She opens her mouth to protest, but another glare stops her words. "He needs care, attention, regular affection – someone to remember his birthday. To be romantic and sentimental with—" Sherlock sighs and looks away. "Besides, he loves you too."

"He loves you more."

Sherlock snaps his gaze back towards her. "As usual you underestimate yourself Molly," he says.

Molly bites her lip, shakes her head but holds his gaze. She wants to know, she's sick of wondering.

"Do you and John – when I'm not around—"

"No."

She stares at him, her gaze flickering across his face. "Is this what you want? Us – him, me, you? Is—You don't have to, with me, I can give you space, we could take turns, if John still wants —"

The thought of not having Molly again hits Sherlock more forcefully than he'd anticipated. "No," he says, the truth of it sharp and intense, blazing like the solution to a difficult case. "I—" he lowers his forehead to her shoulder. This is hideous, this baring of feelings. "No, I want to," he says in the end. "I want you too."

"Oh."

He raises his head and meets her eyes: they are cautious, hesitantly optimistic. He realises she doesn't _know, _doesn't believe it, for all that he's touched her, been inside her body, tasted her, been aroused by her, shared orgasms with doesn't believe him and he rises to the challenge, wants to prove her wrong, show her he's right.

"Molly," he says dropping his voice an octave, gratified to see her pupils dilate and hear her breath hitch. "If you think I don't want you, don't _need _you, just as much as John, then you're _sorely _mistaken."

He slides her dressing gown from her shoulder, pushes her nightgown up her right thigh. He holds her gaze as he leans in and captures her mouth.

Molly is soft and willing, pliant and eager under his touch. He draws his mouth downwards, exposes her breasts, teases her nipples before continuing down her body. And he does want this, wants _her,_ wants to know Molly as intimately as he knows himself, wants to know what makes her sigh and what makes her keen. He kneels between her knees and licks her until her thighs tremble and, flushed and breathless, she cries out, bucking and quivering against his mouth.

He grins when he draws back, wiping his damp face. Molly is wide-eyed and panting, legs still splayed, nightgown askew. She looks delightfully debauched.

"You taste much nicer than John," he says and it makes Molly giggle and _that_ makes Sherlock feel curiously pleased. He sits back on his heels.

And then he hears the bedroom door open.

He looks over his shoulder.

John is standing in the doorway to the living room, naked but for his shorts, sleep tousled. Looking at them both.

"John," squeaks Molly.

John's jaw moves. He licks his lip and then exhales and looks away. He turns and leaves the room.


	6. I just wanna know If you're gonna stay

AN: Thank you for all your comments for the last chapter, if I haven't replied yet, I'm sorry and I will tonight, just been so flat out but I read them all and really appreciate them, thank you so much.

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**Chapter 6: I just wanna know. If you're gonna, if you're gonna stay**

John stares numbly at the bedroom door, replaying the image of Sherlock kneeling at Molly's feet – obvious, so obvious what they were doing. Without him. While he was supposed to be asleep. He sees again Molly's open and delighted expression, her sweet smile aimed not at him, but at Sherlock. He sees Sherlock, relaxed and _happy _as he gazes up at Molly.

He's been a fool. He's been deluding himself.

John takes a deep breath and turns around again, unfamiliar muscles protesting after their earlier (God, _shattering_) use, and marches back into the living room.

Molly is standing now, her dressing gown clutched tight around her, still flushed, still gorgeously post-coital, no longer smiling – John's fault, it makes the ache in his chest worse. Sherlock, standing now too, looks at him warily. John takes another breath.

"Right. We need to talk. About this. Because, all right, obviously it's not just a one off, and – I need to know where I stand."

Molly shoots a glance at Sherlock. "We, we were just talking—" she begins, fingers twisting in her robe.

John doesn't want to hear any more. Anger and humiliation overwhelm him. He's so stupid. "How long has this been going on, you two, behind my back?"

"It hasn't, not before—" Molly begins, distressed, and it's John's fault and it just makes him feel worse. He should bow out gracefully but it hurts too much.

He swallows. "Right. Because, I told myself, I kept telling myself it wasn't what I thought. That it wasn't just you two getting together and that I just couldn't take the hint." He sucks in another breath.

Molly's hand flies to her mouth, expression crumpled. "No, John. We both—"

Sherlock's expression is shuttered. He looks at John coldly. "Please! Spare us the histrionics. As if you and Molly haven't been fucking nearly every night while I sit out here and—"

John steps back, the words sting and everything is suddenly hollow. "So that's what this is." Suddenly it's all clear. "Revenge?"

"John!" cries Molly and he looks at her sharply. Her face is tense and she's shaking. "Stop! Please, just stop. It's nothing like that – nothing. Sherlock was reassuring me. When I saw you both together, I thought, well what you're thinking now, I think."

Sherlock makes an exasperated sound. "Don't be obtuse John! Out of all of us, you are the _least_ dispensable. Molly loves you – I..." His jaw tightens and his gaze pins John and gives no quarter. "I gave up everything for you. Don't you see?"

John can't breathe, he wants to believe them, wants to believe what he thinks Sherlock is saying, but he's just deluding himself again. "No. No, I don't see. What I _see _are two people I care about, in love with each other and I don't know if I'm in the way of that, or if…someone has to choose."

Molly blushes scarlet. Sherlock's mask slips, his cheeks flush as well and he lifts his chin. "Choose then. Pick one of us."

His words hit John right in the solar plexus. He stares at both of them, processes Sherlock's words. "No." He swallows. "I can't."

"Then don't," snaps Sherlock. "Molly, you choose."

Molly blinks and shuts her mouth into a tight line. She shakes her head. "No. I – both of you. I want both of you."

"There you have it," says Sherlock, cutting through his objections like a blade.

"What about you, Sherlock?" Molly prompts quietly. "John needs to hear it too."

Sherlock avoids John's eyes. "I also want to be with both of you."

John can't meet their eyes right at this moment and he studies his shoes. He feels like a complete prat, an utter berk.

"See," says Molly and John feels her fingertips against his hand and it's only then he realises he's clenched it into a fist. He looks up and flexes his fingers.

Molly smiles tremulously and takes a hesitant step towards him, nervous, and it makes John feel a bit sick.

He closes the distance between them, buries his face in her shoulder. "I'm sorry, it's fine, it is. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. It's just, there's been times, with him and me, when I wanted to, but I didn't—"

"I know, I know," says Molly and she wraps her arms around him, presses her cheek against his. "And you can, you should. You and Sherlock. It's okay, I don't mind. I'm sorry, we should have talked about it first. I just –" She takes a breath. "I was worried and I thought, if I made a fuss you might decide to choose and, um… not choose me."

John's throat feels tight, he draws back, finds her hand. "God, no, Molly, no, no. I always want you, always. I want both-" He turns but Sherlock is standing at the window, the lines of his body tense, still. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock doesn't move and John squeezes Molly's hand before crossing towards him. His expression is tight and he stares out of the window. John touches his shoulder.

"Sherlock?" he says again, and Sherlock turns towards him, his expression stark. This raw, unvarnished emotion hurts John, just as much as Molly's distress.

John's heart pounds. He grips the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulls him down and kisses him with crushing urgency. Sherlock shivers and then he clutches at John, his lips part and he returns the kiss fiercely. John takes everything Sherlock offers and tries to show him without words exactly how he feels. He can taste Molly and he realises he doesn't mind, that it's fine. When he pulls back, Sherlock is staring at him, studying him, _reading _him and John meets his gaze squarely, hopes his expression tells Sherlock everything he needs to know, says everything he needs to say, _asks_ everything he wants to ask.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes in answer.

John sags with relief, he can't keep a stupid smile from his face. "Good, that's, yeah, good," he says.

He feels a light touch on his arm and turns to see Molly beside him, looking from him to Sherlock with her big brown eyes. She leans forward on tiptoes and Sherlock meets her in a kiss. She draws back and turns to John, a question in her wide brown eyes.

John kisses her with relief.

"We can try?" she suggests tentatively when she draws back. "Three of us." She shrugs. "We can try."

Sherlock nods and John clears his throat. "Yeah."

Molly's smile threatens.

"We're going to need a bigger bed," she says.

John looks at the two of them and this must be right because he can't think of anything he wants more. He rubs the back of his neck, considering the logistics of this new version of their relationship. "People are going to start wondering where we all sleep," he warns. "Might need to put another bed upstairs."

Molly smiles that bright-eyed, impish smile that John fell for in the first place.

"No," she declares firmly. "I don't care what people think. I really don't. I love you both. There I've said it. I love you both."

Sherlock looks at her with an arrested expression. "Molly," and his voice is rough. He leans down and kisses her firmly.

When Molly draws back she raises both eyebrows at him and positively beams.

"Come on, come on," says John with a grin. "Where's my turn?"

"Oh very well," sighs Sherlock with a quirk to his lips and he plants a hand squarely on John's arse hauling him in close for a kiss with a ridiculous amount of tongue. John chuckles when he's released.

"I meant Molly but you'll do, yeah," he says, more breathless than he'd like.

Sherlock snorts and Molly smiles at him and it's a good smile. John exhales. It's good, it's fine – completely mad, but since when did any of them like being normal? Molly cuts up dead bodies for a living, Sherlock figures out who killed them in the first place and John writes about it.

"Right, well, I'm for bed. Goodnight."

"I'll come with you," says Molly and takes his hand. "Sherlock?"

He shakes his head. "I'm going to play for a while." He rolls his eyes at John's look. "Something_ soothing_." John squeezes his shoulder and for a second Sherlock turns his face towards the touch. John feels his heart skip.

He loves, he's loved. It's mad and it's brilliant all at once. He ducks his head as he steps away, grinning stupidly. He glances at Molly and finds her smiling too widely as well.

John coughs. "Right. Bed."

"Lead on," says Molly and squeezes his hand.


	7. Lady, running down to the riptide

**Chapter 7: Lady, running down to the riptide**

In the end having two boyfriends turns out to be a non-issue for Molly, really. It's not like Sherlock wants to go to dinner parties with Molly's friends, or out on a date to the movies. He's happy to leave all the couple things to Molly and John, as long as he can have John along on cases and Molly's attention whenever he's moping about the flat feeling lost and bored.

Molly tells Gillian, her best girlfriend. She tells her that she's got two boyfriends, that she's still seeing John but also that hot, arrogant, Mr Darcy type she'd always had a thing for, and that neither of them mind (and actually are into threesomes). Gillian doesn't say any of the things Molly was worried she was going to say, instead she looks at Molly for a long moment.

"You lucky cow," she declares, then takes a long sip of her Cosmo. "It's always the bloody quiet ones."

Molly likes it when her two men bowl into Barts, on a case or otherwise. It's silly but she bursts with pride that they are hers, both of them, even if there's usually no one around to even notice them. No one to notice John kiss her on the cheek or to see Sherlock to touch the nape of her neck and press his lips to her temple. And if there _is_ someone else there, poor Greg (she's caught his bemused look more than once) or one of Molly's colleagues, Molly doesn't bother to either hide or explain. She didn't talk about her personal life with anyone before, so there's no reason to make a big announcement now.

She notices sometimes that both John and Sherlock look a bit flushed, a bit dishevelled when they arrive, and there's a certain scent, up close, that's rather distinctive, one with which she's intimately familiar. She'll catch John's eye and he'll grin and look a bit sheepish and chuffed, all at once, and Molly will bite back her smile.

Later, when she gets home from work, John will join her in the shower and as they kiss and touch amidst the soap and spray, he'll tell her what they did, where and how. Maybe John will get her off then, or maybe they'll wait and Sherlock will join them in bed, where it will be her turn and Molly will simultaneously blush and melt under their focused attention.

Some days, like today, however, when John has one of his clinic shifts, and when they leave for work Sherlock is still asleep, lean body splayed, nude and perfect, in their now king-sized bed, Sherlock will turn up at Barts alone later in the day. He commandeers lab space and after he's finished whatever it is he's working on, or while he's waiting for the results of an experiment, he seeks out Molly.

Molly can't deny that this had always been a fantasy, back before Sherlock left, before he returned, before he started sharing their bed: to have Sherlock step into her office and lock the door behind him, pin her with a smouldering gaze and then, telling her in that burnt umber voice of his how very much he wants her, prowl across the room and pull her to him in a possessive, knee-melting kiss. Whether he deduced this fantasy himself, or whether John made the suggestion, Molly will never know, but he _knows_, oh he knows, and he takes full advantage.

"Molly," he rumbles by her ear as he nuzzles at her throat. "My lovely Molly. I've been thinking about you _all_ morning." He is hard, she can feel him against her thigh and Molly gasps as he pushes her back onto the desk. "How tight you'll be around my cock…how delicious you'll taste when I push my tongue inside you…" His hand glides between her legs. She feels him tremor against her and even though his breath catches, his smooth baritone doesn't falter. "Oh Molly, _look_ how wet you are. You've been thinking about me too."

Molly hums in the affirmative, this scenario has crossed her mind, yes.

"I saw you," he continues, teasing her earlobe. "When you stopped by to speak to Mike. I saw the way you looked at me. Such _dirty_, wicked thoughts."

Molly stifles a giggle and bites back a smile and tugs up his shirt, sliding her hands up along his back.

His breath is warm against her throat as his fingers delve beneath the soft cotton of her knickers.

"Admit it, my naughty Molly, you've been waiting for me, hoping I'll pop in before I leave. You've been wanting me inside you, just. Like. This."

She presses her lips tight, her sense of pride won't allow her to admit as much, but his wanton fingers make a lie of any attempt to dissemble.

"Yes," she gasps. "All right, yes."

The sound he makes is half way between a chuckle and a moan and the vibration of it curls down Molly's spine.

He takes her on the desk, fumbling and quicker than usual but oh God, so urgent and desperate as he thrusts into her, his breath ragged. The furtive, forbidden element is more thrilling than Molly cares to admit.

She tries to muffle her cries, someone will hear, the cleaner will be by or her lab assistant…but Sherlock is saying such sweet things, such lovely things.

"Molly, Molly, my Molly, my lovely Molly, oh my sweet lovely Molly," he repeats, interspersed with aspersions on his own intelligence for ignoring her, not noticing her, taking so long to see her for who she is. "How could I have been so unobservant? How could I have not _seen—_" His breath hitches and his voice is rough. "Molly—" He raises his eyes and stares at her, something startled in his expression. "My love."

"Sherlock—" she gasps and clings to him as her climax shakes through her from her very core. Sherlock groans and, with a final thrust, shudders out his own orgasm.

Afterwards, he helps her into her coat and gives her one more lingering kiss. Her heart skips a beat when he takes her hand as they leave her office to go home to Baker Street.

John is at home and when he sees Molly's expression he raises his eyebrows and smirks. Molly giggles and then as she gives him a kiss on the way past, pinches his bottom. Later that evening Sherlock gets on his knees and Molly kisses John while Sherlock renders him a begging, breathless mess with his mouth and hands.

In bed, just Molly and John for now, they cuddle close and she rubs her nose against his.

"This is working," John murmurs. "I think it's actually working."

Molly kisses him softly. "I think so too," she says.

"What did I do to deserve a lovely girl like you?" he asks.

"Must have been something very naughty," teases Molly.

He huffs and kisses her once more before they both settle down to sleep.


	8. I can't have it any other way

AN: Well I had intended to write this _before_ Christmas but certain events got in the way. ahem. Thank you everyone who's been reading along, your comments and favourites and kind words make my day :)

**Chapter 8: I can't have it, I can't have it any other way**

It is Christmas. John and Molly have gone to Molly's mother's for lunch and Sherlock is alone at 221B. Molly had invited him, her steel core showing through her pink and angora covered exterior with this willing courage, but Sherlock declined, citing boredom as a believable excuse - Molly needs her mother's affection and approval, it would serve no purpose to tell her mother about their unconventional relationship, besides Sherlock will happily let John field the unsubtle hints about marriage and grandchildren that these sorts of family get togethers inevitably engender.

Instead Sherlock plays his violin and lets his thoughts wander down tinsel decked halls in his Mind Palace.

He knows Mycroft has arrived even before his umbrella taps against the door of 221B but Sherlock doesn't acknowledge him for several more notes. Finally he lowers his bow and turns.

"Christmas visits now? This is my punishment for faking my death?" he asks.

"Seasons greetings to you too, Sherlock," murmurs Mycroft. He's holding two wrapped gifts (a scarf and tie pin) and places them primly on a side table. "For your two doctors."

Sherlock eyes him and the gifts suspiciously.

"Oh," purrs Mycroft. "But they're out at the moment, you've been left home alone. Well. At least they'll have each other when you grow bored of playing house."

The thought is so unpleasant that Sherlock can't school his features before he reacts. "Do you have a point, Mycroft?" he snaps.

Mycroft smirked smugly. "I think you may have just proven it for me, brother mine. That and the fact that there's still only one bed in 221B Baker Street."

"I told you before: sex doesn't alarm me."

"With two capable doctors to take one's virginity, why would it?"

Sherlock prides himself that this time he keeps his expression blank. "Well, we can't all be deflowered by Mummy's stable hand now, can we?"

Mycroft's smile reduces by two millimetres. "Be that as it may. I trust you will continue to treat Doctor Watson and Doctor Hooper with the consideration they deserve. You'll agree they've both earned it."

Sherlock meets Mycroft's irritatingly knowing look with a glare. "I assure you, I'm very aware of that fact," he says quietly. "The question is, brother, have I earned their consideration?" He tilts his chin and finds that he wants to hear Mycroft's answer, realises unexpectedly that he trusts Mycroft to deliver him the unvarnished truth. He needs to know, if he, Sherlock, deserves this happiness that's been plopped unashamedly in his lap.

Mycroft's smile slips entirely and he studies Sherlock for a long moment. "You don't need me to answer that, little brother. But if it pleases you to hear it, yes."

Sherlock looks away and picks up his bow. He begins to play and he doesn't hear Mycroft leave.

Not long after, John and Molly come home with laughter and good humour. Sherlock keeps playing, watching Molly unwrap herself from her layers, nose endearingly pink. He sees John, ruddy-cheeked, eyes crinkling with laughter, as he helps her. Molly has brought him leftovers (even though Mrs Hudson is downstairs sleeping off the dinner they shared not three hours before). They turn with smiles towards him, and Sherlock lowers his bow and lets Molly kiss him while John regards him fondly.

"Did you miss us?" he asks.

"You were gone?" Sherlock replies, but can't completely keep his lips from quirking into a smile.

Molly gives him a little smack on the bottom on her way to the sofa. John pours them both a drink and joins her and finally, Sherlock puts down his violin and drapes himself across both of them, his head in Molly's lap and feet on John's. Molly strokes his hair and he wiggles his sock-clad feet until John begins to rub them.

"Next year you're coming with us," says Molly firmly.

Sherlock hums lightly, and perhaps it's in agreement or perhaps it isn't but it's certainly with contentment.


	9. I love you when you're singing that song

AN: And now it's done. Thanks everyone for following along.

Warnings for this chapter: smut.

The title of this fic and chapter titles are taken from the song 'Riptide' by Vance Joy.

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**Chapter 9: I love you when you're singing that song**

John and Sherlock stride through the door into 221B, stripping off coats and scarves. They are loud and overly pleased with themselves, buoyed by their own daring and cleverness. John can't help himself, he pushes Sherlock back against the door and kisses him with an abandonment borne of adoration and pent up want. Sherlock sinks into the kiss and returns it just as fiercely, his knees bending to angle his crotch against John's. John groans at the contact, at the coiling pleasure, and they rock against each other for a moment before John suddenly pulls back.

"Where's Molly?" he asks. The flat is cold and quiet and empty. A shot of concern dissipates the post-case high and washes out his lust. He steps back and Sherlock glances around with equal concern before his expression relaxes.

"Mrs Hudson's," he says.

They go back downstairs and discover their errant girlfriend with her feet under Mrs Hudson's table, nibbling a caramel tart.

"Hello," she says around the crumbs and her sticky fingers. "Did you solve it then?"

She looks wholesome and delicious and the sight of her makes John's heart warm. He swoops over and kisses her on the cheek. "Hello you. We did, another case done and dusted," he says.

Sherlock opens Mrs Hudson's refrigerator and helps himself to its contents. "Almost an eight. John was _indispensable_, but I'll let him regale you with tales of his exploits."

John grins at Sherlock's light teasing. "Oi, you'd better believe it. We'd still be there if it wasn't for me."

"I suppose you'll be wanting your young lady back, then," Mrs Hudson says, standing up to clear away the tea things.

"Mm yes, that would be nice," says John. "I need someone who'll appreciate my stunning leap of deductive reasoning."

Sherlock snorts. "There was no deductive reasoning. You tripped and fell through the hidden door."

"What you mean is, _tripped_ and found the door to the counterfeiting lab, thanks muchly. _And_ I was the one who said it had to be in that wall."

"After I painstakingly stepped you through the evidence," sniffs Sherlock but the quirk of his lips and the spark in his eyes tells John he's not really offended.

"Fine, fine, you're a deductive genius too," he allows cheekily and squeezes Sherlock's hand on the way past.

"All right, you two, get on with you," tuts Mrs Hudson, swatting at them with her tea-towel.

Molly has risen, dutifully taking her cup and saucer to the sink. She kisses Mrs Hudson's cheek and pats her shoulder. "Thanks for tea, Mrs Hudson."

"My pleasure dear, off you go then. Keep your young men in line."

John smiles at Molly's blush and he bids Mrs Hudson goodnight as well. She squeezes his hand. "And you two," she says, pointing at him and Sherlock. "It wouldn't hurt you to do a bit more around the flat. Molly's not your housekeeper you know." John glances at Molly and she raises her eyebrows at him with amusement.

"Will do," John promises solemnly and he follows Molly and Sherlock upstairs.

It is barely five minutes before the three of them are tumbled into bed together, moving against each other in a rush of lust and leftover adrenaline. Slowly their touches and kisses become less desperate and a semblance of intent emerges, and as Sherlock kneels between Molly's thighs, John kisses his way down his spine. He licks at Sherlock's coccyx, cupping the twin globes of his perfect arse, and then, as Molly sighs with pleasure, John mimics Sherlock's actions and proceeds downwards with a long swipe of his tongue, licking and probing. John's lust and Sherlock's gasped responses override any qualms, making his actions filthy only in the best of ways.

"_Molly_," rumbles Sherlock lifting his head. "One day I want to watch John do this to your tight little rosebud." He bows his head again and he must give a demonstration because Molly moans and her feet glide agitatedly against John's knees.

"Mm," Sherlock continues, pushing back onto John's tongue. "And then I want to watch him slide his lovely thick prick inside your perfect arse."

Molly bucks into Sherlock's mouth, and John brushes his hand over Sherlock's neat bollocks, eliciting a deep moan.

Sherlock rocks back onto John's tongue for a moment before continuing. Sherlock, John has discovered, likes to be verbal, his deep voice dripping a stream of filthy, wanton consciousness to travel along the pathways of John's brain and straight to his cock. "I'll slide into your lovely wet quim as well and I'll be able to feel John moving in you. Would you like that, Molly? You'll have both of us filling you, kissing you, loving you, my sweet Molly."

John's eyes flutter closed at the image and he hums against Sherlock's sensitive flesh making him quiver.

"Oh God, yes, please," gasps Molly. "Shush now…less talk, more— there."

John licks Sherlock open and then kneels up and pushes inside, rubbing a soothing hand along Sherlock's spine. Sherlock's back arches and he groans deeply as John is seated fully, panting with the clench of tight heat and pleasure. With some manoeuvring they shift backwards until they are both kneeling upright and Sherlock is impaled on John's lap. Molly comes to straddle Sherlock, sinking with a satisfied moan onto his cock. She kisses Sherlock and then leans over his shoulder to kiss John in turn. They hold there, rocking against each other, slicked, sweating and soaked in pleasure. Sherlock rolls his head to the side, pliable and limp with sensual stimulation and John bucks into him with tiny thrusts as he runs his hands down Molly's back and pulls her nearer. She kisses both of them in turn, mouths at Sherlock's elegant throat and cups the nape of John's neck with her hand as she rises and falls, riding Sherlock's cock. For Sherlock's part he thumbs her nipples and arches back against John, one hand gripping his arse to hold him closer.

It feels too good to stop and John doesn't want it to end, but it _is_ too good and he needs _more_ –

Molly lifts off and turns to face the headboard on hands and knees while Sherlock, bracing himself over her against the bed head, enters her again. John rises up on his knees and with a groan pushes back into Sherlock's welcoming body. They hold there for a moment, joined as one, and then Sherlock begins to move, gliding into Molly and fucking back onto John with each thrust. John holds there, hands tight on Sherlock's hips, letting him ride his cock until he can't _not_ move and, bed springs protesting, he snaps his hips, thrusting with Sherlock faster and harder.

Words of endearment spill raggedly from Sherlock's lips, Molly gasps their names and John is no better, swearing and begging them both for his release. They come, sweating and gasping, their rhythm abandoned in the quest for _more_.

Slowly, panting, John pulls away and Sherlock collapses onto the mattress beside Molly. With a contented sigh John flops down on his other side.

They've long since dispensed with condoms, Molly's on the pill and they've all been tested and clean, but it does mean there's two wet spots to be accounted for. They drape various limbs across each other and share sated, lazy kisses.

John sighs and kisses Sherlock's shoulder, sits up briefly to steal Molly's hand to kiss as well. He feels the warm glow of affection, and a sharp flare of something fiercer and stronger.

"I love you," he murmurs. "So much. Both of you."

Molly lifts her head up, eyes bright and a shy, slightly crooked smile on her lips. "Mm, yes, me too. Love you both, I mean. This is good, I think it really is."

John sits up to kiss her. "Yes," he says firmly. "Very good."

Sherlock runs his knuckles over John's chest. He lifts ethereal blue eyes and catches John in his gaze. "My John," he murmurs, then turns towards Molly. "My Molly," he says and his voice is just a bit rough.

"Hey," says John and tips Sherlock's chin towards him and kisses him. It's a tender kiss and when he pulls back, Sherlock's expression is soft. "Our Sherlock," John says firmly. He lies back down, an arm about Sherlock's middle, one leg hooked over his shin.

"Our Sherlock," repeats Molly and kisses him softly before resting her head on his shoulder.

Sherlock exhales, he runs his fingers down John's forearm and presses his mouth to Molly's brow. "Yes," he says.

As John drifts off to sleep, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall, listening to Molly's soft breath, he decides that this must be happiness, he has Sherlock, he has Molly, he has adventure and he has comfort. He has love.

The End.


End file.
